


Recreated [a remix]

by Lilliburlero



Category: The Sandbaggers
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Mid-Canon, POV switch, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:42:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: Matthew Peele knows what people think of him. And, yes, he cares. But maybe not all that much.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: Remix Revival 2020 Madness





	Recreated [a remix]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisbluespirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ruined](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7135832) by [thisbluespirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit). 



> Set somewhere between series 2 and 3.

Matthew returned to the hotel after the disrupted session: there wasn’t much he could add, after all, and it was as well to get his report in early. At about ten to four, satisfied with his handiwork, he decided to treat himself to afternoon tea, a weakness he rarely indulged without Margaret for cover. He imagined Wellingham and Burnside looming down upon his French fancies and milky Assam, united across everything that should divide them in their distaste for lemon icing and tippy golden flowery orange pekoe. Well, jolly old bully for them and their impeccable, austere manliness. The upper hand in this affair was unquestionably his, and he hadn’t had any lunch.

The tearoom was busy with genteel chatter and Laura Ashley frocks: judging by the number of teenage girls wearing the same unbecoming green and navy kilt, all studiously pretending the others didn’t exist, some nearby academy for young ladies must be taking a half-holiday. The waitress, who was probably quite pretty in her own clothes, but in the drop-waisted, calf-length black uniform and lace cap had very much the air of a small terrier trying to maintain its self-respect in one of those fearful novelty pullovers, expressed her doubts that a table could be found for _just one gentleman taking tea on his own_. Matthew remonstrated mildly, pointing out several cleared tables that only required a quick brush down, whereupon she was overruled by a vinegary, foxy-whiskered person who clearly recognised him as part of the prestigious, if not quite as lucrative as in former days, party of “diplomats”. 

‘This way, sir, if you don’t mind the conservatory.’ 

‘No, I’d prefer it, on the whole. I say, could you ask Reception to let me know when my—ah, colleague in 209 gets back, please? His name’s W—’ 

‘We know Sir Geoffrey, yes sir, of course.’ 

He ordered a “Splendid”, five pounds and eighty five pence, declining a glass of champagne for a small supplement, Mother’s voice echoing faintly in his ears— _Champagne is offered only at dinner or a wedding breakfast_ —not that _that_ had ever stopped him, on Hong Kong station. 

Matthew sighed. Saving Wellingham’s bacon had been a good deal less satisfying than he might have imagined. Wellingham would hate him for it, of course, with the especial burning rancour one tended to reserve for a man who had preserved one’s—well, to be honest, it was probably _dignity_ , rather than anything more vital: potty little anarchist unilateral-disarmament outfit, nevertheless, almost certainly infiltrated by more sinister and serious elements, it all could have been very nasty, or at least very embarrassing in a _one a misfortune, both looks like carelessness_ sort of way. 

Sandwiches and scones arrived alongside the tea; absently, Matthew put real sugar in it rather than fishing out his Hermesetas. 

Handsome young chap, too, about six and a half foot tall and all too clearly, under the cable-knit jersey, built by the same firm who did Avebury Henge. Queer how some of these types were so sentimental about the English countryside, and knew less than sod-all about it. Doubtless he could chat up dim, fringed hippie girls with tosh about the Green Man and the Old Religion, but he couldn’t distinguish a pristine tithe barn or hammerbeam ceiling from a mock-Tudor Yates’s Wine Lodge. Touching, all the same: he’d saved his parting shot for Matthew, as Special Branch bundled him into the van— _hope your Rectangular Gothic keeps you warm in the nuclear winter…_

‘Rectilinear,’ Matthew had replied, conscious of the absurdity, the inadequacy, of the riposte. 

He wasn’t an absolute dolt, he thought hotly, plastering jam on a scone. He knew his reputation was exactly that: absurd, inadequate. He couldn’t help feeling it was rather unfair: one didn’t end up promoted to the limit of one’s competence without having some competence in the first place. And he’d been perfectly willing to own that Deputy Chief was about his limit. Being shortlisted for “C” was a mere courtesy, but nonetheless an excuse to have nice things instead of nasty ones for once: splash out on a new suit, eat more lunches at the club than in the canteen, bask in the unusual sensation of people reading and taking his position papers seriously, a little bit of the old Hong Kong glam in Collingstone House. All pretty harmless self-indulgence, until Burnside started buggering him about. Of course, it had backfired rather gratifyingly in the end. 

The real cherry on the poisoned chalice would be to take the early retirement he couldn’t quite afford and somehow rope Burnside into the Deputy Chief’s seat, tie him down good and proper: see how he liked it, stripped of his private fiefdom, forced to counsel, conciliate and compromise. Dash it all, didn’t they teach pulling together and playing the game in grammar schools in Stepney, or wherever—no, that was unworthy, snobbish. Burnside’s execrable personality was all his own, nothing to do with pedigree. He demolished a slice of Battenberg in two bites. 

Anyway, there was no chance of Burnside getting kicked upstairs to administrative Purgatory, not under Gibbs. On the contrary, he would be doing well to hang on to D.Ops, and he wouldn’t be getting any help with _that_ from the DD. 

The cake stand was empty, and so, Matthew noticed for the first time, was the sunroom. _The nymphs are departed, and something, the loitering somethings of city directors, departed, left no addresses…_ Just a couple of old dears by the french windows, eking out a quarterly or biannual treat. He sensed a disconsolate presence behind him and turned to see the little waitress, her brisk manner likewise departed, absolutely drowning a trough of leprous, scabby-leaved calathea. 

‘Good grief, my dear,’ he said, trying to keep his tone kindly. ‘Carry on like that and the poor things won’t live the week.’ 

‘I know. Can’t understand it. Mr Schlink says I must’ve been neglecting them, but I water all of them, just the same, every day. The geraniums are lovely.’ 

‘They are indeed. Mr Schlink is the maitre d’, I assume? I’m sure he’s very good at schlinking around, but—’ 

She grinned, showing herself of an age to which it is improbable that an outsider could guess workplace jokes, however obvious and threadbare. She must barely have left school. 

‘Isn’t there a gardener?’ 

‘Only comes in twice a week, and he’s got enough to do outdoors.’ 

‘Ah. Well. Take it from one who knows. A geranium is a cheerful sort of end-of-the-pier showgirl, you know. Plenty of sunshine, wet the whistle every evening, and away she goes, waving her gaudies. Whereas _C. roseopicta_ —though scarcely more delicate, in fact, is just a tiny bit of a prima donna. No harsh light, it shows the wrinkles—swap this tub with that one over there, look. And don’t drench them: just water the roots when the soil is dry to your first finger-joint. If you’ve a mister, a spray—’ he mimed, ‘they do like that. Good for the complexion. And if you’re ever a little less than rushed off your feet, just watch when the light changes—I swear you can see them move—’ 

Schlink glided out from behind some drapery. 

‘Mr Peele?’ 

‘Mm?’ 

‘Sir Geoffrey is in the lounge to the left at reception. There’s another gentleman with him. Dark overcoat, sir. Very tall.’ 

‘And miserable as bloody sin,’ Matthew muttered. Schlink didn’t catch it, but the girl did. She looked quickly at her shoe-tips. 

‘Lisa, cutlery. Now, please.' 

She looked sidelong at Matthew. ’Thanks for the horticulture lesson, sir.’ 

‘A pleasure, Lisa. See if you can grab yourself a mister for the leading lady.’ 

Schlink looked about to go off like a rocket, but she darted past him with a giggle. 

Matthew took two pound notes from his wallet. ‘Do see she gets this, please. You should want to cultivate conscientious staff.’ The maitre d’’s lips twisted colourlessly in their ginger brush. 

Matthew made his way through to the lounge. He paused short of the glass-paned, curtained door, careful not to throw a shadow. There was still some tradecraft left in him, even after all these years. 

Burnside’s voice sailed, barely moderated, through the glass. ‘—work out the man was a fake?’ 

Wellingham, typically, languidly amused, replied, ‘Not me this time, Neil—Matthew.’ 

‘Well, how the hell did _he_ know? The CIA only gave us the info half an hour ago,’ Burnside boomed. Matthew supposed it didn’t really matter. Intelligence work was clandestine in a very different way these days—probably not even Lisa was under much of an illusion about who the “diplomatic delegation” really were. 

With a deep breath, he drew back his shoulder blades and blew out his moustache, ready to stride in, right on cue, and be exactly what Wellingham and Burnside were expecting him to be.

**Author's Note:**

> 'The nymphs are departed': T.S. Eliot, 'The Waste Land'.
> 
> I've borrowed some of thisbluespirit's dialogue, and there's a nod here to one of my favourite lines in another - roughly contemporaneous, but incompatible - intelligence-service universe.


End file.
